vive la us
by Trust Gavroche
Summary: i hate myself for falling for him, and i hate myself for hating myself for falling for him. because he was the best thing that ever happened to me, a moment of clarity in a life that had been a blur of blue, white, and red.


years, standing at that mock little podium feuilly and bahorel constructed. years, pumping fists to rally support. years, preaching about my love for france. years, working tirelessly yet standing still and watching the time fly by, trapped. years, watching friends fall in and out of love. years, devoting myself to my work and the country but never stopping to live. years, never stopping to love.

i never stopped. not by choice, anyway. i was running and the world was a blur and everything was going according to me and then someone had the audacity to just step in front of me and halt the world.

you can still see the skid marks. they last months. invisible tracks on the timeline of history, but on my timeline they're the brightest. the thing your eyes are immediately drawn to.

he sat in the back of our little meeting room, tilting the only remaining chair back on two legs and roaring in response to either his own jokes, the absinthe, or my speeches. raising a bottle in irony to toast a point a made. green eyes, curly black hair, a sharp mind...dulled by his choices and actions and manner. he was rude and impolite and revolting and i nearly tore the group apart trying to find who recruited him.

i stormed out a few times. i didn't like the way these skid marks ruined the perfection and order of those meetings. ugly black streaks ruining everything we stood for.

and then one day, something changed. i stopped skidding and started looking. looking, at this strange man who had been a boulder in my river. and there i stayed for another few months. halted. trying to put it all together. this man...he didn't believe. he couldn't. he had been through too much, had seen too much, had lived the savage life of a street urchin. he had never attended university but knew more than any of us.

and so we met. late, late, late, after the meetings. we'd stall and then when they all went home to lovers, we'd talk. discuss. it was still rough, at first. six times, one of us stormed out. december came and went, and then we started meeting again. maybe he wore me down. maybe my eyesight shifted. i don't know what happened, but it struck us both.

and here lie the four golden months. _**  
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january. clashing glances and accidental hand brushes certainly weren't the focus of those meetings, but they were all that seemed to stay in my mind at first. i couldn't get him off my mind. i tried. believe me. i did everything short of take up drinking the poison he drank, though once i wondered if it would help. i wrote pamphlets until the sun came up. i gave so many speeches in a day that my voice went hoarse. i squinted over so many maps and plans and books in the dimness of a lamp burning low. but he wouldn't go away.

february. my eyes were bloodshot and my hands were read and my head was pounding and i could barely speak. i had almost succeeded in forgetting the name of this strange man who had turned my life upside town for inexplicable reasons. he came over to my house in the dead of night, knowing i'd be awake. and he forced me to put down the pen and come to bed. and i was too tired to protest, and he sat next to me the whole night. we had coffee the next morning and the rest of february was a blur of scheduling when we'd see each other again.

march. i came to terms with the fact that i was in love. i smiled, out of joy and love for life, for the first time in many years. i think courfeyrac and combeferre may have had some idea as to why i no longer shot death glares at the rumpelstiltskin in the back of the cafe. after meetings, we'd don our coats together and sit near the seine for hours. he'd come to my flat and we'd casually discuss politics, halfhearted arguing interrupted by kisses. march was the month of romance, its gold tinged with a rosy hue.

april. april was burning and fiery and passionate. we couldn't let go of each other. fingers intertwined, lips hot and sore, bodies yearning for more. it, us, may have been wrong but i was so drunk on him that i didn't care. blind to the world and all its callings, all that mattered was those bright green eyes and that crooked smile. the chill of winter still remained as the seasons slowly transitioned into spring, but neither of us could feel the air's sting or the wind's warning. april was the month of no regrets, our wildest fantasies, our deepest secrets.

and then came may. the fire faded. maybe there wasn't enough kindling, maybe we had just used up all the air allotted to us. heated and passionate kisses became chaste and finally, a rarity. he stopped showing me his paintings, i stopped sharing ideas with him. because spring was a time of planning and preparation. our group met, both speaking in the crowds and in the cafe. i couldn't afford to live a double life with him and a rebellion. i chose the rebellion and it was the worst mistake i've ever made.

the time was ripe. the poor of france were fed up with the government's unjust cruelty. i was, too. people were expecting something to happen. small riots made the news every day. the people wanted change, and a rebellion would bring that to them. but i had let myself get distracted.

i hate myself for falling for him, and i hate myself for hating myself for falling for him. because he was the best thing that ever happened to me, a moment of clarity in a life that had been a blur of blue, white, and red.

and now we're holding hands for the last time. everyone else has fallen. my friends, my work, my dream. the barricade lasted a night. it's morning now, and the bottom of the sun is just starting to separate itself from the horizon. i'm standing by the window and in the moment before they fire, he comes running up the stairs, stumbling from the hangover i know he has from last night. his hair is tousled and he's filthy but never have i seen a more beautiful sight in my life. and he smiles at me and i know we've forgiven each other. and i know he doesn't believe in god or a heaven but i close my eyes for a moment and hope that we'll be reunited there. his pinky finger intertwined in mine is the last thing i feel before the shots ring out.


End file.
